Seven weeks homeless today, at this very moment, 12:05 pm. Lunchtime the sheriff came. Shame, humiliation, sorrow, loss, homelessness. This is how the department of mental health aided and assisted me to keep my depression, anxiety and PTSD from getting worse, and to keep at least half of my family, which I’d hoped and asked to do.

Ah, the landlady. I mentioned her once, I think, but maybe not again. Of course she has her part in this destruction. She has her share of the blame, her share of the cruelty. But I’d known what sort of person she was for a long time, and I’d learned to expect lies and illegalities and immoralities from her. That’s who she is. I naturally expected much better from the DMH.

Someone just sat down beside me here whom I’d like to get away from. I know him slightly. So maybe that’s all for now. Wrote a little on the blogspot journal, but not much. Am sick today from getting too chilled yesterday, and am even more depressed today. Everything I value and love is gone and in the past, and most of who I am/was is frozen there in the past too. There is no authentic present moment for me anymore. It’s all phony, pretend. Phony smiles, phony chat. Playacting a real person. I’m no such thing. The real person I was was hacked to pieces seven weeks ago today. It’s 12:15 now, and at this time I was standing with my bags at the roadside, staring over to the doors and windows where everyone I love remained to be hauled away; I was crying, folding and unfolding my hands. Shame, humiliation, loss, tremendous pain. The DMH did this for me.

I need to write their names again, the fourteen stolen: Mishi, Brainse, Judah, Mandy, Shiloh, Chan, Ziidj, Chailin, Aram, Abel, Chani, Lizzie, Tuuschi and Canajoahrie. I love you as bright as all the light that ever was.

Update Sat 23 May 2009: How to write here again, with all the hope and denial of a year ago all gone. I really did hope so mightily that the DMH would help me (and later Matthew’s crowd) and I’d see at least a few of them again. And the people who know what became of everyone I love will not talk. Shirley Temple at the DMH, and certain people in Turners Falls. They will not talk. No compassion whatsoever for the pain of not knowing what happened to my children. People believe they have the right to keep this from me, as if I were a child and not worthy of adult consideration. They will keep these secrets for years if necessary, rather than give me the truth I need, the knowledge of how and where they ended, the knowledge of where any living ones might be. So much cruelty leveled at me by so many, as if I were some heinous criminal, and the punching bag for anyone who wants one.